Red Herring
by Hane no Zaia
Summary: In which Red left the circus for London and met not Mana but a wiseacre street urchin keen on puns and quoting Oliver Twist, a trio of underlings, and eventually the Millennium Earl, who is undeniably intrigued.
1. The Earl and the Urchin

_I don't really know what to say. I think the summary pretty much describes it. _

_Last edited May 23__rd__ 2016._

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**The Earl and the Urchin**

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_The man handed two photographs to the boy, stating: "Information on the location of either is worth half a shilling."_

_The boy grudgingly took them, scrutinised them and then looked back up, his eyes still somewhat narrow. "How recent are we talking?"_

_The man did not hesitate. "Three months."_

_The boy hummed slightly at that. "They were both here last month, but I haven't seen or heard of them since."_

"_Are you certain?" the man asked, earning himself a decidedly snappish look._

"_Unlike some, I've got a good memory for faces," the boy scoffed._

"_Do you know where they went?" the man asked._

_The look sent his way proved decidedly calculating. "That depends on how much the info's worth to you."_

_Again, the man did not hesitate. "Two shillings."_

_Neither did the boy. "Cheap."_

"_Five," the man suggested._

"_Do you really want to find these people?" the boy asked, having the gall._

_Really, in any other, the man would have found such behaviour infuriating rather than endearing. "Ten."_

"_Why?"_

_Well‒ "You might call it a casual interest."_

"_Is that all?" _

_Hardly. Still‒ "Is it not enough for you?"_

"_It seems like a lot of money for so little effort."_

_Indeed, but‒ "Appearances can be deceiving."_

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Appearances could indeed be deceiving.

Despite hating Innocence and humanity in general, the Millennium Earl had an admitted soft spot for children. Particularly those destitute but resourceful, that had not been coddled or spoiled rotten by well-meaning elders, appealed to his tastes. It was hardly more than a passing interest though, one that oftentimes ended in some small act of charity before the recipient disappeared from both sight and mind.

This one was different though, the Earl privately supposed; to the extent that 'peculiar' might even be considered applicable.

The first time that the Earl had laid eyes upon him was during the winter of the previous year, at the scene of a fatal accident. Even though said accident had managed to attract quite a bit of a crowd, the Earl had taken note of the youth standing close to the scene, holding back a clearly distraught but mostly quiet comrade.

There had been something about the youth's expression that had made him pause; a deadpan kind of look that proved deceptive when the youth ‒ acutely aware of his brief scrutiny ‒ abruptly shifted his attention from the battered body on the cobblestones to the Earl where he stood, and levelled his human appearance with a look that was so cold it proved searing.

Searing or not however, the look had only been maintained for as long as it took the Earl's coachman to reach him with the news that local law enforcement would ensure that the mess would be taken care of and that they would be able to continue onward without much delay.

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That second time had been that very night, when the grief of the distraught boy from before had summoned the Earl to him. However, before the Earl had managed to even make his presence known and way before a deal could even be made, the youth from before had turned up with another youth in a tow, addressing the bereaved in a tone that was as hard and as flat as the look that accompanied it.

"Bates, if Artie saw you now, he'd want to kick your arse. Hell, like this, even Wisely could kick your arse."

_Wisely_. That definitely piqued the Earl's interest, and when the group left, he made careful note of their respective appearances.

The boy called Bates was quickly passed over in favour of the latter two, who had proven all the more intriguing.

The one called Wisely had messy brown hair and looked to be both the tallest and the eldest out of the bunch. However, he was obviously deferring to the shorter youth whose hair was similarly messy but definitely had some red to it, and presumably also more of it beneath all that dirt.

Again, as if somehow sensing his scrutiny, the leader of the pack snapped his head around, silver-grey eyes snapping to the darkened corner wherein he had concealed himself, remaining there just long enough for the Earl's interest not to wane.

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

The third time had been in the early spring, when the boy called Bates ‒ whose full name was apparently Charley Bates ‒ had tried and failed to get away with picking the Earl's pocket.

Surprisingly, the Earl had found that he recognised him, and his curiosity regarding the fate of the other two had him drag the sputtering Bates off into an empty alleyway rather than to the appropriate authorities. As expected, his enquiry regarding the others was met with some amount of confusion, one that was swiftly followed by suspicion and obstinate silence.

Though sorely tempted to try out other more forceful means, the Earl had forced himself to remain patient. He had hauled out his pouch, withdrawing about a guinea's worth of shillings and presenting it before the aspiring pickpocket. Said pickpocket in turn had looked like he had never seen so much money in his entire life, which may or may not actually have been the case. "A sign of my goodwill, Mr. Bates."

The boy had obviously been startled by the familiarity and had remained wary, though there was the underlying hint of desperation hidden in his eyes; an underlying desperation that would no doubt undermine what stubborn resistance still remained if the right reassurances were given.

Providing said assurances, the Earl had been granted a brief account that indeed, the others were still alive. However, there had been obvious hesitance in admitting that they were both well, for reasons that would become apparent to him later that night, when the redheaded leader of the group had both figuratively and literally descended upon his doorstep; it was actually Sheril Kamelot's doorstep, but when it all came down to it, that was a mere question of semantics.

Either way, since the child had actually gone through the effort of climbing a tall wrought iron fence as opposed to waiting outside of the gates, the Earl figured that he might as well go and find out what they wanted.

"Good evening."

Out in the dark, silver-grey eyes narrowed in response to his greeting.

"What can I do for you, child?" the Earl eventually proceeded, and the eyes remained narrow.

"You can take your charity and go to Hell," the boy finally snapped, stepping forth and into the light escaping from the open doorway in which the Earl himself stood.

"Charity, is it?" the Earl commented, taking a step forward himself and shutting the door partially behind him, eyeing the pouch held out towards him.

When he didn't take it immediately, a look of considerable exasperation crossed the child's face; it remained perfectly visible to him even in the relative lack of light.

There was a beat of silence as the child shifted his posture slightly, apparently coming to a decision.

In the moment that followed, the Earl readily caught the pouch lobbed at him.

"Make sure that the sum's right," the boy instructed, his voice clipped. "If Charley's lying, then I'll bloody throttle him."

The Earl opened up the pouch, pouring out its contents into the cup of his palm. "And why is that, pray tell?"

The eyes continued watching him and coldly at that. "Because I don't feel like owing you anything."

"So," the Earl proceeded. "As per my understanding of your logic, stolen money is perfectly acceptable, whilst money given freely is not?"

A positively withering look was sent his way, but he hardly paid it any heed. "One shilling's gone."

The narrowed eyes widened a fraction and were then averted, glaring darkly off into the distance. "That goddamned _twat_…"

Noting the word but making no comment, the Earl proceeded to pour the money back into the pouch. "If charity is no good, then you may consider it blood money if you like."

The eyes widened slightly and then narrowed, but they were still staring off into the distance. "It was Artie's cockiness and stupidity that got him killed, with some help from your coach," the boy then proceeded, turning his head to look at him. "He was too busy celebrating his latest catch to pay attention to the road ahead."

"Even so, a human life is a human life," the Earl countered, regarding him closely. "Isn't it worth at least one shilling?"

He actually earned himself a small chuckle at that; the first sign of amusement ‒ albeit wry ‒ that he had up until then observed.

"You're only worth as much as you can give," the boy scoffed. "And if you give nothing, you get nothing."

The _"And then you are nothing"_ was heavily implied, but remained unsaid.

"Give and take, is it?"

There was a mild shrug in response. "I'll have your shilling tomorrow evening at the latest," the boy said, obviously ready for imminent departure. "Then we're even."

"And if I'd be willing to settle the debt in some other way?"

The boy stiffened at that. "If you touch me, I'll kill you."

Oh?

The boy shifted his posture slightly, levelling him with a look that was anything but warm. "And I'm not giving you Wisely either, even if he's a smartarse, or Charley, even if he's a twit," the boy said, remaining tense and obviously wary. "And I'm not touching you either," he then added, with all the more venom to it.

Oh. "I can assure you that I make no habit out of assaulting children."

The look sent his way informed him of just how little weight his assurance carried. "You've got more money than you could ever need and no need for a pickpocket, and besides that and my body, there is nothing that I have that you could possibly want."

"And if my wish is to trade the money owed for information that only you can provide?"

There was a brief pause during which something changed, and something beyond that of mere distrust glimmered in the boy's eyes; a calculating look, almost. "And what information would that be?"

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

Red Herring was the name of the clever waif that gained the brunt of the Earl's interest, the leader of a small gang of street urchins. There were five of them in total, ranging in-between the ages thirteen and sixteen. Initially, they had started out as three; Jack, Charley and Tom were the youngest, but had stayed together since their mutual decision to ditch the workhouse.

Back then, Jack had been the leader of their little group, seeing that he had been deemed the most cunning. However, he had been ousted from both positions with the inclusion of the gang's senior members, first from his position of leadership by Red and then from his position as the most cunning by Wiseacre Wisely Cunningham, aptly baptised as such by Red due to being an insufferable smartarse.

In return, Wisely, who unlike the rest of them could read quite well and had no qualms about showing off, bestowed the rest of them with some last names for the sake of irony. Thus, Jack became Jack Dawkins, Charley became Charley Bates, and Tom became Tom Chitling, aptly named so after some of the characters in Wisely's favourite novel. Red was in turn bestowed with the surname Herring after rolling his eyes at the argument regarding which of them would be better suited for the name Oliver Twist.

Apparently, Red had then declared that Wisely, despite being the oldest and the tallest of them, was also the meekest in the bunch and the least adapted to his surroundings, and that as such, he was the best suited for bearing the name. Wisely himself on the other hand argued that even Oliver Twist could throw a mean punch if the situation called for it, to which the others conceded with the reservation that Red would still be able to kick his arse, because that much went without saying; Red was not the leader for nothing after all.

Wisely might've been sixteen and almost two years Red's senior, but Wisely himself wasn't even ashamed to agree when the other's commented that he wasn't even an eighth of the fighter that Red was. Then again, Red ‒ whoever he had been before joining the gang about four years prior ‒ was in a class of his own, as Jack, Charley and Tom had come to discover firsthand and rather painfully at that.

They were five. With the sudden departure of Jack "the Artful Dodger" Dawkins to the afterlife as opposed to Australia, they were now four.

Soon, there would be only two.

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	2. The Week in Whitechapel

_Last edited May 23__rd__ 2016._

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**The Week in Whitechapel**

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London was a dirty town, filled with people who were dirty either on the outside or on the inside, and occasionally even both. And as far as people went, Red had seen them all; at the very least in passing. As for how many of those people who'd seen him, that was another question altogether.

In the end, what people saw, heard and in general perceived was heavily reliant upon the way that they'd been raised and toward which ideology they'd been taught to adhere; that was what Wisely would have said, that bloody wiseacre.

Of course, Red could very much agree that the way in which people had been raised definitely played its part in how they viewed the world and in how they viewed the things and the people in it. He knew this without having to use fancy vocabulary such as philosophy and ideology and philanthropy and whatnot.

One wiseacre in the group was enough, and Wisely was more than qualified for the part. Artie might've given him a run for his money, but Artie was technically speaking six feet deep into the soil. Still, they ‒ well, Wisely and Red at any rate ‒ liked to joke about him having gone down under instead ‒ to Australia, that is. Of course, they usually joked about it when none of the others were present. They were all pretty jaded, but there are degrees of world-weariness. Wisely and Red were at the higher end of the spectrum, in addition to being the type ill-humoured enough to make subtle jokes about it.

More often than not however, Wisely was engrossed in his latest reading material and quoting it in an attempt to appear educated, all while Red settled into silent contemplation whenever he was not running about London with the others, picking people's pockets or acting as a decoy while others did. Wisely also helped on occasion, but more often than not, he was the tactician while Red was both the leader and the prime enforcer.

All in all, this was probably the sole reason as to why Wisely was still in the gang despite his evident lack of fighting prowess and endurance for anything but short distance flights. Besides, there was also the fact that he had an inherent clumsiness to him and an unfortunate tendency to stumble on his own feet. Wisely kept insisting that it was the shoes' fault, but in the end, it was all the same anyway.

As of late, they'd taken up residence over in Whitechapel in the small rundown apartment of a forty-something woman who was apparently Tom's aunt or something, a prostitute and one out of many in the area; it was Whitechapel after all.

"How's Tom?"

Tom wasn't great. According to the quack that they'd dragged out there just the other day, he had consumption or tuberculosis or whatever they called it. Red didn't need to know a whole lot of fancy words to tell that it was bad; when people started coughing up blood, it was usually pretty bad.

"How's Tom?" Wisely repeated from his chair over by the fireplace and threw a look in the direction of the room containing the bedridden sod before looking towards Red, who was only just arriving back from his latest hunt. "Still highly contagious, I'm afraid."

"So is Charley's stupidity," Red drawled, pulling a chair from the tiny kitchen table to join Wisely over by the hearth.

Wisely's eyes flickered to him briefly before he returned to the book and was once again engrossed. Red noted the look but didn't respond, staring into the glowing embers. Over in the other room, the incessant coughing began anew and they exchanged a brief look before each of them returned to their previous activity.

"So?" Wisely said at last, marking the page before slamming the book shut. "Who's got infected? You?"

Red didn't dignify that with a response, taking the poker and stirring the embers. "I'm not the one keeping the sick guy company," he said at last.

A slight smirk spread across Wisely's features. "I'll be more probable to catch my death out there in the cold than indoors by the hearth. Besides, by now we're all probably infected so if it breaks out, it breaks out."

"A little spring air won't kill you," Red offered somewhat charitably.

"Nah, but the smog in it might," Wisely sniggered.

They both grew quiet as there was a slight croak from the back room, leading them to exchange a slightly wide-eyed look. Red got up first, poker in hand and everything. Wisely got up moments later, still armed with the thick tome he'd been reading. Soon, they were in the back room with a wheezing Tom who was sickly pale,covered in sweat and blankets and who occasionally seemed to have something blocking his airways.

"Well, that can't be good," Wisely piped up from behind Red who stood stock-still as Tom's wheezing breath once again caught. "We should just‒"

Abandoning the poker, Red closed in on the distance that lay between them and the patient, pulling Tom up from the mattress and forcing him onto his stomach into a position leaning over the edge of the bed. Then, he struck him in the back, first once and then twice more. A wet and disgusting sound later, whatever had been choking Tom was now on the floor by the bed. Despite everything, Wisely crept closer to take a closer look while Red put the other back into the bed to rest on his side, readjusting the blankets while he was at it. "What _is_ that?"

Red didn't dignify it with as much as a look as he stepped past it on his way to the door. "Who gives a fuck?"

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

That night, once Charley was firmly out for the count and the aunt was out working, they found themselves discussing their options.

"So?"

It was dark and they were seated beneath the window, speaking quietly in order not to be overheard.

"Will you smother him with the pillow or should I do it?"

Red scoffed in response, but Wisely remained undeterred. "The quack's already said that it's terminal, so what's the damn point?" he insisted. "Besides, Madam Smith's already taken out a life insurance on him."

"Once he's dead, there's no real reason for her to keep us," Red retorted, because that was equally true. "If she'd think she could pull a Fagin on us, then she would've done so already."

"Maybe she's plotting to kill us?" Wisely suggested, just a tad too cheerfully. "Like that woman, you know, that arsenic woman, what's her name… Marianne something?"

"Mary Ann Cotton." Red resisted a sudden urge to roll his eyes, knowing well what awaited him now as Wisey broke out into humming.

"_Mary Ann Cotton, she's dead and she's rotten, lying in bed with her eyes wide open…"_

Wisely looked at him expectantly. Red wilfully ignored him.

"Aw, come on, Red, don't be such a fermented fish."

Red resisted the evident urge to put an elbow into the side of Wisely's ribcage. Instead, he got up. "I'm going out."

"You're going out _now_?"

"Now," Red readily affirmed, moving with ease in the dark as he went to fetch his shoes.

"It's in the middle of the night though," Wisely intoned as he moved to do the same.

"Then stay here," Red offered, pulling on his tattered coat.

"With these contagious little buggers? No way."

Red honestly didn't bother arguing about it.

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

"_Mary Ann Cotton, she's dead and she's rotten, lying in bed with her eyes wide open…"_

"_Sing, sing. What song should I sing? Mary Ann Cotton's tied up with string…"_

"_Where? Where? She's up in the air, and they're selling puddings for a penny pair…"_

Wisely grew quiet once more but continued humming.

Red rolled his eyes and picked up his pace as they moved through the fog.

For being in the beginning of April, it was somewhat cooler than usual, but with all the humidity in the air, it was probably just that.

"Come on, Red Herring, it's your turn to sing now."

Red didn't have to dignify that with a response. Still‒ "Wisely, if your incessant singing gets us discovered and hauled over to the workhouse, then I'm not breaking you out with me."

"Come on, just once."

He considered it briefly. "Will it make you shut up?"

"Definitely," Wisely quipped, a tad too amusedly. "And if we've both gotten infected, then I'll be able to die happily."

"You morbid twat," Red scoffed in return.

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

"_Mary Ann Cotton, she's dead and she's rotten, lying in bed with her eyes wide open…"_

The sound of his boyish voice reverberated against the brick walls, carried off and onwards along with tiny droplets of fog.

"_Sing, sing. What song should I sing? Mary Ann Cotton's tied up with string…"_

He drew for more air to finish the travesty but paused midway, picking up on the sound of footsteps trudging their way.

Loud as he might've been prior to this, Wisely instantly grew quiet and followed Red into the shadows. He did seem somewhat hesitant however as Red then began moving for where the street they were on met Osborn Street, towards the noise rather than away from it.

After fighting a brief battle with himself, Wisely opted for what seemed natural and followed right along, joining Red over by the corner and peeking out at the foggy scenery of Osborn Street. "What is it?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Do you see anything?"

Red didn't answer and in the end, he didn't need to as Wisely saw them too and stiffened.

"Isn't that‒?"

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

History knew her as Emma Elizabeth Smith, a widowed woman approaching forty-five years of age and the first prostitute to be killed in what became known as the Whitechapel murders. Some would come to attribute her murder to the notorious Jack the Ripper, although it would be deemed unlikely by the scholars that came afterwards. Records would describe her as a woman shrouded in mystery who supposedly had a son and daughter living somewhere near Finsbury Park. Unknown to most though, she also had a nephew named Thomas who went by the name Tom.

She was viciously assaulted in the early hours of the morning of Tuesday 3rd of April 1888, at the junction of Osborn Street and Brick Lane in Whitechapel.

"She said that she'd been attacked by two or three men, one of them just a boy," Wisely dutifully repeated to the duty surgeon over at the London Hospital, Dr. Something Hillier.

"She didn't know them," Annie from the lodging house next-door filled in, nodding seriously. "It was just pure luck that her boys got worried and decided to go out looking for her."

The good doctor looked from one boy to the other, no doubt noting their tattered appearance. "And you saw nothing?" he concluded, half to himself and half to them.

"Nothing," Red responded, looking back at the man for a whole second before averting his eyes, decidedly uncomfortable. "It was foggy."

Wisely nodded in agreement, forcing the good doctor to turn back to Annie and to the deputy keeper of the lodging house, Mrs. Russell. "Was it?"

Everyone nodded.

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

Three days later, on April 6th, the police got involved in the matter and launched a major investigation.

By that time, Madam Smith had already been dead for two days and her nephew, Thomas, had already been dead for three.

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"Did it have rabies?"

Red stared at his hand and at the fresh bite mark there, largely impassive and indifferent to the fact that Wisely was holding onto it.

"I'll lick it," the older boy graciously offered.

Red wrinkled his nose, pulling his hand from the other's grip. "Gross."

Wisely snorted. "Hey, which one's more gross ‒ my spit or an infection?"

Red gave a somewhat dismissive wave, his hand hurting but none of it seeping into his facial expression. "I'd rather have a cat's germs than yours."

"Really?" Wisely looked vaguely offended. "Well, suit yourself then."

April 7th ended with no further incident. The same really couldn't be said about the days that followed.

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	3. A Like in

_The plot thickens. Gradually._

_Last edited May 23__rd__ 2016._

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**A Like in…**

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"_Mary Ann Cotton, she's dead and she's rotten, lying in bed with her eyes wide open…"_

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"_Sing, sing. What song should I sing? Mary Ann Cotton's tied up with string…"_

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"_Where? Where? She's up in the air, and they're selling puddings for a penny pair…"_

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

The nursery rhyme tells the story of Mary Ann Cotton, born Mary Ann Robson back in 1832. Prior to getting apprehended and later on hanged, it is believed that she had murdered up to twenty-one people, mainly using arsenic. Other than a number of husbands and lovers and possibly even her own mother, her list of victims also included several children, stepchildren as well as her own, largely for the sake of collecting insurance money.

Due to poor living conditions and a general lack of immunity, people ‒ especially the very young and the very old ‒ had a definite tendency to drop dead from ailments that are relatively mild by today's standards or that are largely preventable nowadays due to mass inoculations. As such, it had taken quite some time for the authorities to catch on to the fact that people seemed to drop dead even more often than usual after coming into closer contact with Mary Ann.

Mary Ann's downfall was largely her own doing, brought about by a few careless words uttered to a parish official. She had claimed that her stepson Charles Edward Cotton would meet the same fate as the rest of his kin; that he wouldn't trouble her for long, a statement that had aroused suspicion and resulted in an investigation, after the boy's sudden death.

In the early March of 1873, after a murder investigation and a frenzied media circus, Mary Ann's trial finally began. It had taken ninety minutes of deliberation for the jury to return with a guilty verdict. She was hanged on March 24th 1873, but remained immortalised in a nursery rhyme composed in her (dis)honour. Next to rereading Oliver Twist for the umpteenth time, singing the aforementioned was Wisely Cunningham's favourite pastime, to the occasional amusement and ever increasing exasperation of those around him.

Death was after all a huge part of life, and with the gruesome conditions that some people grew up under, it was really no wonder that they turned out a bit twisted along the way. It didn't exactly excuse the actions, but it was a matter that those well-off and appalled ought to consider as they sent them to the gallows. Nevertheless‒

"_Wisely."_

Wisely stopped whistling the tune of the rhyme and turned. "Red."

"If you don't stop singing, then you'll be the one dangling from a string."

For once, Wisely rather wisely decided to take Red's word for it. "You're in an unusually bad mood today. If the bite's bothering you so much, then maybe you ought to let a doctor have a proper look at it?"

Red scoffed in response, adjusting the linen wrappings. "It's been washed with spirits."

No further elaboration was really needed, so Red didn't bother.

Wisely shot him a look but commented no further, realising the pointlessness of it.

Today was April 8th, and for now, the skies were fairly clear. There was a wall of clouds drifting in from the southwest though, promising rain. It was nothing unusual per se, just like Red's foul mood was nothing unusual. As such, there was nothing fundamentally different about this day; nothing spectacular. Except‒ "I cannot help but notice that we've been better off lately ‒ financially, I mean."

Red didn't acknowledge the voiced thought, moving past him further down the alleyway. Not the type to be put off by such slight dismissals, Wisely followed, taking longer strides in order to keep up with him. "Did you manage to pick the pockets of a baron? Burglary? Keeping lonely old barons company?"

The look sent his way was decidedly disdainful, indicating that Wisely was getting close.

"Informant," Red finally scoffed. "Some barmy old _duke_ wanted information on the whereabouts of some people, so I got it for him. Willing to pay ten shillings up front, and then some. Calling it a casual interest."

Some barmy old _duke_, eh? "That's a lot of money for so little effort."

"That's what I said."

"And the barmy old duke?"

"Said looks can fool you or something."

Looks could indeed be deceiving, Wisely privately thought, but they could also be surprisingly honest. There was little mistaking Red's disdain at the mention of the man, which definitely pointed to something deeper. "You don't like him."

Red didn't dignify that with a response, hurrying his steps along.

"No Mr. Brownlow then," Wisely commented a bit breathlessly, struggling to keep up. "But still, a barmy old duke? How the Hell did that happen?"

Red stopped suddenly, so suddenly that Wisely knocked right into him. Red hardly even grew unsteady though, standing stock still as a figure moved past on the main street outside.

Regaining his own sense of balance, Wisely caught a fleeting glimpse of them before having the brunt of his attention stolen by his companion's decidedly eerie facial expression. Considering the fact that Red remained largely unfazed by coppers, misery, disease and death, seeing him react so visibly to anything was quite rare.

Several moments after the cigar-smoking redhead in the fancy black cloak had disappeared out of sight, Red remained eerily still, retaining that strange expression of his.

Wisely opted to forego the rules of common sense, reaching out to touch Red's shoulder.

Normally, touching Red without permission was the same as signing up for a punch. This time around though, while Red's attention immediately snapped to him, but there was no move to resort to violence. If anything, then the action almost seemed to calm him.

"Let's go."

They continued onward in silence.

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

You're only worth as much as you can give. And if you give nothing, then you get nothing, and then you are nothing. Such was the gospel of Red, and in order to enjoy the privilege of Red's company and protection, you had to be useful to him somehow, be it as pickpockets, decoys, or as in Wisely's case, as a literate strategist.

Admittedly, Red didn't particularly care for books in general; he cared for information, but only if it was useful. Similarly, he cared for Wisely, but only if he was useful.

Wisely on his end obviously cared for Red, because it was pretty damned difficult not to feel anything for the person who had saved his hide on more than one occasion. Considering the alternative, Wisely definitely knew where his loyalties lay. Still, that was not to say that he wasn't curious about this barmy old duke that had apparently hired Red to spy on people.

If the black-coated redhead from before was in anyway involved in this, then Red's reaction to seeing the man made some sense. Of course, considering the fact that Wisely knew relatively little of what had gone on in Red's life prior to becoming part of it, maybe‒

"Wisely," Red said somewhat abruptly as they neared George Street. "If I disappear, don't look for me."

Wisely considered him carefully; considered the seriousness of the statement. "Then what should I do, if you suddenly disappear?"

Red kept his eyes ahead and his pace high, forcing Wisely to try and keep up with him. "You're Oliver Twist. Work it out."

Wisely felt sorely tempted to start quoting Charles Dickens right then and there, knowing just how much this habit irritated his companion. He refrained however, perhaps because he knew not to tempt his fate and especially not today, when Red's temper was not only foul but also irregular.

His thoughts returning to the wound on Red's hand, Wisely pondered the likelihood of the other having developed a fever. Whether the wound had been washed with alcohol or not, who knew what kind of bacteria that creature had had in its mouth; cats ate rats, among other things, and few of said things were very clean.

Still, though Red seemed fairly pale, he had always been on the paler side. Besides, considering the fact that he didn't seem to be finding their excursion very strenuous, he was probably as healthy as he had always been. Even so, Wisely would have liked to check his temperature, despite well aware of the fact that Red's temperature was always at least one degree higher than that of normal human beings.

They entered Mrs. Russell's lodging house, where they lived now that Madam Smith had met her untimely end. It was all rather unfortunate, but at least they didn't have to worry about Tom anymore. Instead, they had Charley, who honestly wasn't doing so great. Actually, Charley hadn't been doing particularly great ever since Artie had first gone down under.

So, asking Annie "How's Charley?" was mostly a formality these days. Rather than being useful, he was a liability to the group, or rather to what little still remained of it. Wisely himself would have been satisfied to leave Charley to his fate, uncaring of whether Annie and the others kept him or dumped him onto someone else.

Red didn't say anything.

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

In the lodging house, the walls were thin and the tenants loud. Be it through talking, stomping, snoring and whatnot, they kept grating on Wisely's nerves. Truthfully, this was still one of the better places he'd ever lived in though. The neighbouring apartment had been less crowded, but with Tom's illness tainting the place, enjoying it had proven decidedly difficult.

Naturally, since it was crowded, beds would obviously have to be shared; nothing unusual, per se. Equally natural was the choice of Wisely sharing with Red, because Charley snored and Wisely had already had to refrain from smothering one of his former comrades and honestly wasn't so keen on being accused of murdering another.

Red's sleep was quiet, for the most part. Actually, it was arguable that he slept much at all, because he usually seemed to be awake whenever Wisely was.

Turning over onto his side, Wisely could clearly see the outline of his bed mate in the dark, curled up onto his side, facing him. In a way, it confirmed what Wisely had already suspected, because the other's exhalations had been tickling his neck for quite a few minutes. Their depth and regularity also confirmed what Wisely had suspected yet been unable to believe until he had confirmed it with his own eyes.

Propping himself up with his elbow lay close at hand but he opted against it. On the other hand though, if Red hadn't been woken up from the creaking when Wisely had turned on his side, then‒

He lifted his hand, still somewhat hesitant. Then, despite knowing how stupid it was, he reached out.

Moments thereafter, he was on his back, the fingers of one hand pressing into his windpipe and the fingers of another wrapped firmly around the offending limb. Even in the darkness, Wisely could see the whites of Red's eyes, and he imagined that the pupils were slit like those of a cat. It was a strange thought, Wisely had to admit as much. Still, it fit strangely well with Wisely's views of Red's character.

"You were too quiet," Wisely amended, because twice now, he had broken Red's general rule of not touching except when permitted. "I had to check."

That was absolute bullshit, and even in the darkness, Red could obviously tell as much. The grip still loosened though before being relinquished altogether, allowing Wisely to prop himself up just in time for Red to flop back down beside him, curling back up. He didn't turn away though, so Wisely also laid back down.

While listening intently to figure whether or not they had woken anyone, they kept sizing each other up. Then, after the continued snoring confirmed that the other tenants had remained fast asleep, Red finally spoke, his voice barely audible. "Bullshit."

"You saw, didn't you?" Wisely countered, keeping his voice equally quiet. "Saw who did it?"

Red blinked once, indicating that he was surprised by the question. "Madam Smith? Yeah?"

"The pimps," Wisely filled in, eyeing him seriously. "Or their people at any rate."

Red neither confirmed nor denied it.

"So, no witnesses?" Wisely concluded, frowning slightly. "Could you describe them though? I mean, it'd be good to know in case we run into them or something."

Red had a good memory for faces. When it came to names though, his memories proved far dodgier. As things were, only the people who had made a very deep impression on him were remembered by their names, remembered by their names but addressed by their assigned moniker. And in Red's world, most people went by the moniker _That Bastard_, with or without adjectives to describe to which bastard he could possibly be referring. That and variations, of course.

"Think they'll try to press us into service? Kill us?"

Red snorted softly at that. "It's their funeral."

That was another way of saying _'If they do that, then I'll kill them'_, Wisely privately supposed. Was it reassuring? Wisely supposed it was. Still, though Red had the makings of a ferocious fighter, he was still only one person and a young and fairly small one as well, compared to the number of thugs Wisely imagined that he could end up facing.

The odds wouldn't be in their favour. Even if proper authorities were to get involved, the latter could be bribed. After that, it ultimately came down to which party had not just the best enforcers but also the deepest pockets. Then again, Red seemed to have found himself a barmy old duke, hadn't he? Or was it the barmy old duke who'd found him?

"It was his carriage," Red said when Wisely finally asked about it. "Back in December."

In other words, it had been the barmy old duke's carriage that had sent Artie down under; an accident brought about by unlucky coincidences and carelessness, mostly on Artie's part. Artie had been a skilled pickpocket, so to them, it had certainly been a loss. Besides, Tom and Charley had never quite recovered from it.

"But how?" Wisely persisted, narrowing his eyes slightly. "He didn't get our names and we didn't get his."

"The twit tried to pick his pocket," Red quietly relayed, curling up further. "Got caught."

"When?"

"Late March."

In other words, the event had taken place around the time when they'd just moved in with Tom's aunt, after Tom's health had deteriorated. It was also around that same time that Charley had stopped looking Red in the eye. "So, Charley sold us out and a barmy old duke hired himself an informant? No wonder you've been giving Charley the evil eye then."

Red said nothing to that, but sat himself up instead.

Wisely remained the way he was, watching him. "So, what's the plan?" he asked quietly as the silence stretched on further. "Killing him and selling his body to anatomy students?"

"That'd just get you hanged," Red commented softly, the bed creaking some more as he swung his legs over the edge of the mattress.

For now, Wisely stayed down. "Going somewhere?"

Back now facing him, Red didn't turn around. "Out."

"Out where?"

"Outside."

Occasionally, Wisely pondered whether or not he wasn't the only wiseacre in the group. "If your hand's bothering you‒" he began before trailing off, propping himself up slightly. "No matter. I'll go with you."

This time around, Red did turn his head slightly. Though it was still dark and the other's back was still facing him, Wisely could very much tell that Red was clutching one of his limbs ‒ apparently the left one ‒ against his chest. "Don't," Red instructed, looking ahead once more. "I'll be back by daybreak."

Recognising the imminent onset of one of Red's episodes, Wisely _wisely_ refrained from arguing. It had been a while since after all, and the last thing Wisely wanted was to get in the way. Instead, he merely settled for seeking confirmation. "For sure?"

"For sure," Red responded quietly, already across the room with his hand on the door handle.

Whether wisely or unwisely, Wisely let him go.

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

True to his word, Red did return before daybreak, albeit only just. In addition, he was drenched, bleeding, and shaking, but Wisely decided to focus on the more positive aspects of it.

"Did you get them?" Wisely asked as he pulled a chair from the table over to the hearth, joining Red where he sat in dry clothes with a blanket hanging from his shoulders like a ratty cape of some sort.

Silver-grey eyes flickered to him briefly before they resumed their intense staring contest with the hot flames dancing in the hearth. "Four or five of them."

"Which of them threw you in the river then?"

Wisely could have asked which of them had taken a shot at him, grazing his bicep, but he didn't. A graze was only a graze after all and fairly easily sterilised. The river on the other hand was another matter altogether, because if Red had managed to get some of that dirty water into his lungs, then pneumonia would be the least of his ‒ and by extension also Wisely's ‒ troubles.

"Neither," Red offered up, continuing to stare intently into the flames. "I stumbled."

Yeah, right. He'd _stumbled_. "Bullshit."

Much like Wisely hadn't needed to check to see if Red was still alive the previous night, there was virtually no way in Hell that Red would've just stumbled of his own accord and ended up in the river. Red occasionally hunted goddamned monsters; without proper coordination, quick reflexes, strength and his abnormality, he would've been dead a long time ago.

Then again, much like the thin scar that ran vertically down the left part of his face, Red's abnormality and occasional hunt were never directly alluded to. Hell, Wisely wasn't even entirely sure if the other three had even known about it; about what Red did on a monthly, if not weekly, basis.

Before meeting Red, Wisely had thought that monsters didn't exist; that monsters existed only as human beings. Afterwards, he knew that there was a particular brand of monster that wore the skin of humans while hunting in their midst. Monsters did exist and they wore human skin, and for some inadequately explained reason, Red preyed upon them.

Red himself appeared to be some type of monster-human hybrid; he bled red like the rest of them, but the skin on his left arm was red and slightly scaly. Truth to be told though, Wisely had never really gotten a very good look at it; the long sleeves and leather glove were usually in the way. In the time that they'd been together, about six months, Wisely had only seen it once in person; how that left hand of his had grown claws and torn out the throat of one of those masquerading monsters.

Masquerading monsters bled black, and when killed, they burst into smoke and ashes. The smoke was apparently noxious too, because Red had pushed Wisely into the river, not so much with the intention of killing him as with the intention of preventing this. Red himself appeared to be immune to it though, presumably due to his status as a hybrid. He'd still had to jump into the river though, because Wisely obviously couldn't swim. H

This had taken place during the late summer months, which had been lucky because otherwise they could both very well have died from hypothermia; Wisely at any rate. That had technically been their first meeting, but they hadn't really joined up then; Red had left once he'd pulled Wisely from the river, and Wisely hadn't caught sight of him again until around November, following which he'd effectively wormed himself into Red's little gang. With Artie and now Tom gone, not much remained of it however, and with Charley being the way that he was, it was really only a question of time before it was just the two of them.

"How's your hand?" Wisely deliberately failed to specify to which hand and to which problem he was referring, something that didn't go unnoticed, going by the mildly annoyed yet at the same time mildly amused look sent his way.

"My hand's fine," Red responded, also very deliberate in his failure to specify. "How's Charley?"

Apparently, the phrase was no longer just a formality but also a rhetorical question, possibly even a joke. "Still very much alive and kicking, I'm afraid. Mostly the former though. Highly contagious too for that matter."

Red snorted softly at that, running a hand though his tousled hair, briefly uncovering the facial scar in its entirety; the inverted pentagram and everything. Wisely had always wondered just how on earth that had happened; a simple scar was one thing, and an intricate carving another. Assuming that it was much like the case with Red's left arm, he had resolved not to look into the matter. With the unwitting efforts of others, it was hardly necessary after all.

Back at their former hideout, where they'd stayed up until Artie's untimely departure, there had been a slightly faded poster put up on one of the walls. Those had been in the early days of Wisely's own stay with the gang, and since it usually paid to be observant, he had asked Artie about why Red kept using the thing as target practice for his knife-throwing skills.

"There's a clown on it," Artie had offered up in response, as if that should have explained everything. Since it obviously didn't though, he had ultimately been forced to elaborate. "Red hates clowns."

Wisely considered it a true shame that he hadn't looked into the matter further back when Artie had still been around; Artie had been the clever and competent sort, so even if Red hadn't been very generous with giving out info, Artie and the others had still been with him for maybe four years. The knife-throwing and apparent hatred of clowns obviously suggested a previous involvement with the circus. Then again‒

"What the Hell are you looking at, _Wisely_?"

He answered by pointing to his own face, tracing the outline of the scar. "Nothing much."

In response to the provocation, a mildly irritated Red pressed his left hand, sans the usual glove for once, against the left part of his face, covering the scar completely. Bathed in the light of the flickering flames, the scaly left hand looked even redder than usual. The glow of the strange green cross embedded in its palm was muted, but still evident, even in the warm light coming from the fire.

"The Bastard very nearly gouged my eye out," Red admitted at last, removing the hand from his face in favour of reaching for his usual glove where it hung, still drying. "He was drunk though, so I managed to get it."

_It_ obviously referred to the small throwing knife that remained either directly on Red's person or within an arm's reach at all times. "Trophy?"

Red gave the room a cursory glance, obviously listening for the rest of the house's occupants. "Insurance," he decided at last, looking at Wisely with those silver-grey eyes of his.

Wisely didn't ask if Red had killed this particular bastard. It had to have taken place four years ago, so in Wisely's mind, it was already in the distant past.

Besides, it hardly mattered, because when you were on the streets or frequenting them, it was a question of natural selection; survival of the fittest, as that Darwin guy had put it. Not that Wisely knew all that much about him of course; he had read a pamphlet somewhere and word of mouth had it that the church had been and still was quite upset with his writings. Apparently, he'd thought that humans were related to apes, a type of animal that Wisely had to admit held far less resemblance to pompous politicians than pigs did. The offspring of a pig and an ape however‒

The arrival of Annie tore him from his thoughts. She was frowning at them both. "Charley, the poor dear, has taken ill."

They exchanged a look, first with each other and then with Annie. "So?" Wisely dared. "Is it serious? Are you suggesting that we run over to the hospital? That _we_ carry him there?"

Technically speaking, with the additional funds from Red's stint as an informant, they could afford to arrange a coach. The question was whether or not the coach driver felt like coming into their area and giving a ride to people like them. The question was also whether or not Charley was worth any additional trouble. Wisely himself honestly didn't think so, but with Red being the undisputed leader of their bunch, the decision obviously wasn't Wisely's.

Red stood up, distracting Annie from glaring daggers at Wisely. Then, without a word, he moved for the room where Charley was obviously bedridden, picking up his discarded shoes on the way.

Not wanting to be left alone with Annie's judgemental gaze, Wisely followed, although he remained in the doorway while Red bent over Charley, scrutinising him. Then, Red straightened and made for the door and Wisely moved aside to let him pass before following.

"So?" Wisely asked once they had both made it out of both sight and earshot. "What's the verdict?"

Red picked up his pace somewhat. "Not a doctor. Not a judge either."

"The odds are that he's caught what Tom had," Wisely noted, giving him a sideways look. "If so, then shouldn't we start getting worried for ourselves?"

Giving their surroundings a quick glance, Red motioned for Wisely to follow.

Temporarily deprived of other means of entertainment, Wisely began to hum the tune to his favourite song. Red sent him a pointed look but said nothing, not even after they had made it into a slightly better area.

"Annie hasn't offered you anything, has she?" Red asked at last, a discreet look over his shoulder.

"Annie?" Wisely repeated, somewhat puzzled. "You mean besides her general disapproval?"

"Food, drinks," Red pressed, looking somewhat impatient now. "Have you accepted anything from her?"

"No." Wisely could somewhat see where this was heading; an intriguing but nevertheless worrying direction. "But why would Annie of all people‒?"

Red cut him off. "Madam Smith and Annie had the same pimp," he offered up, giving their surroundings another look before returning his attention to Wisely. "Mrs. Russell doesn't know."

"But apparently you did," Wisely shot back somewhat heatedly. "Really, some heads-up would've been nice, don't you think?!" He lowered his voice again, hissing. "She could've killed us!"

There was a mildly guilty shift at that. In Wisely's opinion though, it was nowhere near guilty enough.

"No," Red said at last, looking at him steadily now. "Annie is a lot of things, but not a killer. Not by choice anyway."

Not by choice, huh? "Then what?" Wisely asked, keeping his voice low. "She got forced into it, tried the easiest target first, chickened out and told us to get a doctor to come have a look at him in order to make sure that she didn't accidentally kill him by intentionally feeding him arsenic?"

Somewhat expectedly, Red didn't dignify that with a response and simply pressed onward. Equally expectedly, Wisely followed his lead.

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-


	4. Something Fishy

_Last edited May 23__rd__ 2016._

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

**Something Fishy**

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

Charley's condition had steadily improved. Annie's mood had not.

Wisely wasn't particularly concerned with either; his concerns lay elsewhere.

Red's mood had not improved; it had rather deteriorated. Whether or not it actually had much to do with the situation surrounding Annie and Charley was debatable; Annie's pimps were probably on Red's shit list, but that was by no means the only thing that had been clouding Red's mood as of late.

Moody and exhausted was not a great combination in the longer term, and when Red returned to the lodging house in the late afternoon, Charley and Annie were both wise enough to keep well away from him.

Arms folded across her chest, Mrs. Russell met Red's glare with one of her own, but by the time he had moved past, the stern look morphed into something akin to concerned disapproval. Then, by the time Red had disappeared into the room that was presently his and Wisely's, Mrs. Russel's concerned disapproval morphed back into a stern look which was then directed at Wisely. "Mr. Cunningham, a word."

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

One piece. Two pieces.

"Say, Duke…"

Three pieces. Adding more pieces.

"I cannot help but notice that you've spent more time than usual sneaking about London as of late."

Sheril Kamelot was a quite busy man. Being not only a member of the Noah family but also a politician and more recently a family man, Sheril had more than enough on his plate already without involving himself in the business of others. His attempts at keeping track of Tyki Mikk were obviously exempt; Tyki was his younger brother, and Sheril would forever consider looking out for him a part of his duties, regardless of the fact that they were both adults and led decidedly different lives.

The business of the Duke ‒ the Millennium Earl ‒ was something Sheril usually didn't get involved in beyond the part that involved following orders and making himself useful. That having been said, it wasn't as though Sheril didn't pay attention. The Duke's recent interest in certain street urchins had by no means escaped Sheril's notice; he had merely opted to turn a blind eye to it, until just recently.

Six pieces. Seven pieces. "Is that so?"

It was faint, but there was a definite underlying hint of edge to the Duke's tone, telling Sheril to tread carefully. Despite inwardly debating the wisdom of it, Sheril still pressed onward. "Those children‒"

"You might call it a casual interest, Sheril," the Duke noted with a sense of wry amusement, stirring his extremely sweetened cup of tea. "I seem to have stumbled upon something quite peculiar."

"Peculiar?" Sheril repeated, picking up on a slight shift in the Duke's mood.

The slight but unmistakable smile playing on the Duke's human lips grew decidedly more pronounced. "A _red herring_, one might even say."

Frowning, Sheril pondered the possible interpretations of that. A red herring was after all not just a type of smoked, strong-smelling fish used to mislead hunting dogs. It was also a way to refer to something; a suggestion or a piece of information intended to draw attention away from the really important matters at hand. But which of these could possibly apply in this particular scenario?

Obviously, in Sheril's private opinion, street urchins and children in general ‒ barring his lovely daughter Road ‒ were dirty creatures that carried a stench with them, similar to yet at the same time different from the stench of other humans. In addition, if memory served him right, then word had it that at least two of the brats in question had hair that could possibly pass as red, provided it was given a thorough enough rinsing. But if so, then who and in what sense‒No, no, it was not relevant. What was relevant was‒ "What are your plans for them, Duke?"

The Duke sipped his tea, his gaze moving towards the garden. Some of the amusement fled, in turn making room for cool calculation.

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

Having a word with Mrs. Russell wasn't something Wisely tended to enjoy. He had certain opinions about the woman that he usually kept to himself. Unlike the case with Annie and Charley though, he actually respected her, albeit very reluctantly. He did well to stay on civil terms with her after all, because if they didn't stay on good terms with her, then they would have to seek out alternate accommodations again, and that was always a pain.

Surprisingly, what Mrs. Russell had for him was not a stern reminder about rent or a notice that they should start packing; it was an envelope, sealed with wax and everything. Even by just holding it in his hand and looking at it from different angles, Wisely could very much tell that it was high-grade paper, and the wax seal definitely pointed to some affluent source. But who did Wisely know that was capable of such? No one. Not personally at any rate. Indirectly on the other hand‒

Wisely left with the envelope still unopened. Going by the look that crossed Mrs. Russell's face, she would very much have liked to read whatever was in it. However, going by her lack of protest, Wisely reasoned that she had probably been paid at least a shilling not to let her curiosity get the better of her.

However, he didn't only leave with the unopened letter; he also left with a small and somewhat stale loaf of bread as well as a small half-empty bottle of gin, because Mrs. Russell had insisted.

Oftentimes, it was actually healthier to drink diluted alcohol than it was to drink only water. Water was oftentimes contaminated; people who had grown habituated to it usually didn't get sick from it, but for others, it was usually a lot more sensible to either boil the water or to stick to alcoholic options such as ale or gin. Wisely himself truthfully wasn't too fond of either, but considering the alternative‒

Wisely pushed the door closed with his foot. He didn't chance trying to lock it while carrying all three items, instead crossing the room with a few steps to dump them onto the side of the bed that wasn't occupied.

Silver-grey eyes regarded him momentarily before apparently deeming Wisely uninteresting or trustworthy enough not to warrant any further scrutiny. Wisely was inevitably reminded of a cat; they were vile creatures, but dogs were worse. Wisely, he kept it to himself, even though the thought proved decidedly amusing.

Having accomplished his task, Wisely retreated back to the bed, claiming a seat.

Red's eyebrows furrowed slightly at the noise, but the expected glare remained suspiciously absent.

"How's your hand?" Wisely asked, having positioned himself so that he would easily be able to gauge the other's reaction.

"Good enough to wring your neck," Red deadpanned, heaving himself up into a seated position.

Had Wisely not been moderately well acquainted with Red's strength, then he would have argued that one required two hands in order to properly wring someone's neck. Being quite well acquainted with it however, he opted not to argue and instead indicated his latest catch. "From Mrs. Russell. The food, not the letter."

Red gave the bread and gin bottle a cursory glance before narrowing his eyes at the sealed envelope and at Wisely when he plucked it and began to working the wax seal trying not to tear the paper; it was fairly high-grade after all, and even if it couldn't be sold or traded, it could still be useful.

Red let him struggle with it for several moments before pulling out his throwing knife.

Wisely handed over the envelope without prompting and watched as Red opened the thing with surprising skill, leaving both the paper and the seal relatively intact, pausing only briefly to admire his own handiwork before handing the letter back.

"Should I read it aloud or quietly?" Wisely asked, mostly out of courtesy.

Red scoffed at that, sliding the knife back into its hiding place. "Your letter, your choice."

Wisely mentally tacked on _Your problem,_ because though it remained unspoken, it was definitely there. "Hungry?"

"Not really."

"Liar."

He got a mildly irritated look for that, but beyond that, Red did not rise to the bait. "So you're sleepy then? How about a lullaby?"

Snorting, Red snatched up the loaf of bread, divided it and handed over Wisely's share; Red's share was technically bigger, but Red was also the breadwinner, so it was only fair.

As they had on previous occasions, they soaked their share in the available beverage, using it to soften the bread. Still, said beverage was usually ale, so they both grimaced a bit when they first got a taste of the gin.

"Ugh," Wisely said and Red made a sound of agreement. "Next time, let's get wine."

"Fresh bread," Red sighed, already having consumed the last of his share. "Meat."

"Potatoes!" Wisely filled in. "Fish and chips!"

Wisely could have listed a large number of other groceries or courses, but opted to remain relatively realistic about it.

"Roast beef," Red muttered under his breath, curling back up onto his side.

"Jellied eels," Wisely responded, scooting over to lean his back against the headboard and the wall behind it, his legs outstretched before him.

Red rolled over onto his other side, back now facing him. "Shepherd's pie."

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

Having contemplated the folded piece of paper in his hands for quite some time, Wisely unfolded it at last. Despite the sound, Red didn't even stir, chest rising and falling visibly; he appeared to be sleeping and quite soundly at that.

Torn between staring and decoding the squiggly script, Wisely finally opted for the latter, squinting slightly in an attempt to make out the general content.

It was a politely worded invitation from, as Wisely had suspected, the barmy old duke.

Red definitely wouldn't like it; it was risky. But as things were, doing odd jobs for an eccentric but wealthy noble seemed like a safer bet compared to going around picking pockets now that there was a gang keen on removing them from the equation. Red could probably be persuaded to see this as well, considering his paranoia. Then again‒

Wisely let the issue rest, and he wasn't surprised to find himself to be the room's only occupant when he woke up in the night. "_If I disappear, don't look for me_, huh?" Wisely muttered under his breath, reaching underneath the pillow to touch the folded letter, making sure that it was still there; potential insurance.

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

Red didn't return in the morning. He didn't return in the afternoon either or even in the evening or in the morning that followed. "_If I disappear, don't look for me_, huh?"

Annie too had left to seek out customers and hadn't returned in the morning. By the time the sun had begun to set, they had come to learn why.

Charley was inconsolable at first. Even Mrs. Russell looked decidedly pale as the gist of what had occurred was relayed to them, in part from the word on the street and in part from the words of the two police constables who had turned up the lodging house's doorstep, no doubt led there by the word on the street.

Dealing with the Scotland Yard was hardly ever a pleasurable experience. After all, though the men had a quite nasty homicide on their hands, Wisely hardly failed to notice the dirty looks sent his and Charley's way, even though Charley was mostly just hiding behind Mrs. Russell now that his primary source of human comfort was no longer in this world.

It really wasn't a question of who had done it, not to Wisely at any rate. Annie had had a mission; having failed to accomplish said mission's objective, she had paid with her life. Going by the clues, Wisely could hardly arrive at any other conclusion. And, if such a conclusion was indeed accurate, then perhaps they too ‒ himself in particular, Charley more as an afterthought ‒ ought to make themselves scarce.

After all, the pimp's gang weren't looking for them; they _already_ knew where they were. Knowing that, Wisely could only hope that they didn't already know that Red still hadn't returned.

Again, the letter and its contents came to mind. Wisely felt sorely tempted to follow its instructions. After all, what awaited him there could hardly be any worse than what possibly awaited them if they remained at the lodging house or in this part of town. But‒

He collected himself and considered his options, lying on his back at night, staring blankly up at the darkened ceiling. "What would Oliver Twist do in this kind of situation?"

Obviously, Wisely wasn't naïve enough to believe that a real-life Mr. Brownlow would take an interest in them; people always had motives, some of them more nefarious than others. Red seemed to have an uncanny ability ‒ perhaps some animalistic instinct ‒ to read the people around them, marking them as neutrals, potential victims and hostiles of differing degrees. And, going by Red's words and behaviour, that barmy old duke of his should definitely be treated with caution. Still, at this rate, what choices did they really have?

Annoyed, Wisely sat himself up. "_Don't look for me_, my arse."

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

As things were, Wisely was only just getting his shoes on when there was a soft rap on the front door, completely unfamiliar. It startled him, obviously, and filled him with an ice-cold sense of foreboding. Retaining his silence, he sat there in the dark, making no move to announce his presence to whomever or whatever was beyond the door. He was hardly calm however, possibilities racing through his mind at dizzying speeds. The pimp's gang? No, they would hardly knock softly. And it definitely wasn't Red either, because Wisely would've recognised that anywhere. But then‒

Despite his self-preservative instincts screaming at him, he found himself reaching for the doorknob.

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

Red was back in the morning, his clothes still dripping and quite smelly at that.

Wisely, newly awoken from a restless sleep, critically took in the sight of him. "Honestly," he finally snapped. "Next time you decide to go swimming, at least have the decency to bring back some fish."

Despite being both weary and wet, Red huffed and reached into his pocket. "Hand."

Mildly surprised, Wisely held his hand out, palm facing upwards. Moments thereafter, Red had deposited a fish ‒ a small perch, if Wisely wasn't mistaken ‒ into it. The fish's cold sliminess aside, Wisely managed to steel himself and not drop it. Instead he looked up at Red, willing his face to adopt a look of disapproval. "Just one?"

Moments thereafter, the situation dissolved into laughter, because Red, positively grinning, reached inside his shirt and pulled out a damn _pike_.

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-


	5. Red Speckles

_Last edited May 23__rd__ 2016._

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

**Red Speckles**

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_Frozen snow._

_Cold. Hard. Cold._

_Wind._

_Cold. Cold. Cold._

_He put his hands before his mouth, heating them slightly with his breath before rubbing them together, trying to get some warmth back into them._

"_Fuck this cold."_

_He kept mumbling under his breath, repeating the saying like a mantra as he trudged on through the wintry landscape, trying to walk on top of the hardened crust. It kept breaking beneath him whenever he moved too quickly though, dragging his feet farther down into the cold._

"_Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, fuck it."_

_At this rate, it was becoming a question of which would go first; his toes or his fingers. His face and ears seemed to be doing pretty alright though, mostly shielded from the elements. Sort of. He tried not to think too much about it, steadily making his way onwards._

_Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold._

_He blew on his hands again._

_His breath was warm but nowhere near warm enough, because his fingers remained cold and stiff._

_Really, at this rate, it was only a question of time._

_Absentmindedly, he wondered just how much time had passed; was it mere hours or days, even weeks?_

_On second thought, it had definitely been at least a day or two, because he could definitely remember the hours of darkness. It was really a blessing that the temperature had risen slightly rather than dropped; had it been the opposite then he would possibly have frozen to death during the first night. Small mercies, he privately supposed._

_At the start of it all, he had been moving through a haze of sort; he had been exhausted, hurting and partially blinded due to the swelling, determinedly limping away from the scene of the crime. Granted, he was still exhausted, cold and hurting. By now however, he was fairly used to everything but the cold now that temperature had once again dropped._

_At first he had struggled to navigate through both the pain and the bloody haze. Since his sense of direction had always left much to be desired, it only made sense for him to get lost. However, getting lost was not a problem so long as he did not end up stumbling back into the place that was his starting point._

_In hindsight, he really should have‒_

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"I hear it was a bloody massacre."

Red paused briefly in his movements, levelling Wisely with a somewhat flat look before dumping the washing cloth into the small basin.

It was April 14th, and Wisely fought to keep his eyes averted as Red put on some dry clothes; Artie's old ones, because they had had roughly the same size.

Having a lot of clothes to choose from was not a luxury awarded to anyone, because food and rent were always prioritised higher than acquiring spare articles of clothing. As long as clothes awarded good enough coverage and even some warmth, they were not overly picky about the state of them, provided they did not reek too much. Of course, what they themselves viewed as light stench was probably smelly enough to make some grimace and some upper-class ladies faint.

The original trio, Artie, Tom and Charley, had never quite understood why Red of all people, who did not seem to mind a whole lot of things others would have considered outrageous, would occasionally get kind of picky about his personal hygiene, actually washing both his clothes and himself on occasion. Artie had occasionally followed suit though, theorising it played some part in Red's skill as a pickpocket. Nimbleness and technique aside, Wisely privately had to ponder that Artie might actually have been onto something; it certainly had to be easier to sneak up on an unsuspecting target if they could not smell you from afar after all.

Naturally, Wisely also took care of such things as personal hygiene. Admittedly, he was not as meticulous as some, but all in all, he did make an honest effort. Of course, seeing to the fact that he and Red lived like they did, it was difficult not to get used to the smell and for it to stick to them as well, albeit less pungent. Then again, the city itself hardly smelled of roses, so‒

Wisely was getting off track.

"Hey, Red, did you‒?"

The response was dull and final. "No."

Wisely shot Red a definite look where he sat, one knee drawn close to his chest and the other leg stretched out before him, and recalled the multiple bruises he had seen blossoming all over Red's back, the new cuts marring his arm, face and throat. Wisely also thought about the state of Red's clothes; the decidedly suspicious-looking smears and speckles covering them. "Not even a little?"

He got a definite look for that; an outright glare to be perfectly honest. Wisely opted to leave it at that, retreating into more neutral territory. "How's the hand? Is it healing properly?"

Red waved dismissively, returning his attention to the dying embers in the hearth.

Wisely opted to view it as an invitation instead, putting aside his book.

Red shot him a somewhat exasperated look as Wisely sidled up beside him.

Then, at last, Red scoffed and presented his hand for further inspection.

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"Say, Red."

Red tore his eyes away from the people milling about the small plaza, levelling Wisely with a somewhat flat look before directing his eyes back towards the crowd.

It was just after noon, and they were sitting on the steps of the nearest parish church.

"Tough question here: What are we going to do about Charley?"

It was not really a tough question, not really. There was a perfectly practical solution to the Charley issue; no, there were at least two, and only one of them demanded any hard work from either of them. Wisely was rather fond of the potential solution that did not. However, fact remained that he was nowhere near deluded enough to assume that there were any decisions to make without Red's input on the issue.

As expected though, Red didn't dignify that with a response; his good mood had come and gone much like the skies had cleared. He hadn't seemed very surprised to learn about Annie either. Wisely supposed it was really no wonder though; the rumours had no doubt spread throughout both the lower and higher levels of society at this point. Annie had even gotten a mention in the gazette Wisely had managed to skim through earlier, even if it had been just a footnote compared to the headline of the latest issue.

Charley wasn't well, though fact remained that he was doing better now that no one was actively trying to poison him ‒ he was doing better physically speaking, that is. Mentally however, he seemed to be at an all-time low; Red barely seemed to take much note of it though, his mind obviously occupied elsewhere, and Wisely, well‒

Wisely turned the page, trying to focus on his latest reading material. His attention continued to drift however, mostly towards his eerily quiet companion.

It was interesting, and a tad worrying perhaps, the difference that a few hours could make.

Obviously, Wisely had already tried to breach the topic of Red's recent thoughts and whereabouts. He had done so hours ago. Red had not proven cooperative however ‒ not in the slightest, as a matter of fact. As such, Wisely had chosen to at least temporarily abandon the attempt, knowing well that Red's mood would only go sour if Wisely pressed the matter. His efforts seemed to have been for naught however, as the mere reminder recent events seemed to have been enough.

Still, fact remained that Annie's pimp and his gang had been massacred in the night; bloodily wiped from existence if rumours were to be believed.

Considering the blood on Red's clothes and the bruises on his skin it would have been decidedly tempting to assume his involvement. One set of bruises in particular proved very telling; Wisely absentmindedly wondered whether or not Red was even aware of the fact that he had finger-shaped bruises marring his throat. Obviously, Wisely also wondered just who or what had managed to inflict them, but asking about that now would probably not have been such a great idea.

"To my understanding, we should still have enough money to last another month at the very least," Wisely tried at last, gauging Red's reaction from behind the gazette. "Am I wrong?"

Red kept his visible attention on the crowd milling about, looking rather pensive. His upturned face, distraction and the daylight that fell upon it all allowed Wisely a better view to the lines of visible exhaustion. Granted, Red hardly ever slept very peacefully, but going by how he looked now, out in the daylight, it was decidedly questionable whether he had actually slept very much at all these last couple of days.

Coming to think of it, a lack of sleep would certainly explain some of Red's erratic behaviour, which ranged from irritated and jittery to largely apathetic. Of course, irritation was usually an emotion that lay pretty close at hand, but at the moment, Red's patience with just about anyone seemed relatively nonexistent. Still‒ "Red."

Red's eyes flickered to rest upon him briefly before returning to scan the crowd, narrowing slightly.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.

No answer.

"Are you listening to me?"

Red finally tore his eyes away from the plaza, twisting his neck to regard Wisely with a blatantly irritated look. _"What?"_

"Money," Wisely pinched the ridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. "How much?"

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Though there were limits set by both supply and demand, fact remained that jobs were usually available in some form; the potential for jobs, at any rate. Of course, the types of jobs one could take largely depended on one's size, appearance, intelligence and whatnot.

Even for children, there were opportunities. Granted, said opportunities were often quite shitty, even hazardous or directly detrimental to their health. Of course, there had been laws passed recently in order to prevent that. However, given demand and opportunity, laws were readily ignored. If they were even known in the first place, that is.

Some pursued more honest and hardworking endeavours, performing tasks that ranged from menial to hazardous, hoping to earn a living running small errands for the rich. Most still found themselves in the dirt however, sweeping crossings, emptying dustbins or catching rats for profit. Girls who did not sell themselves sold fruits, flowers, bootlaces and what else they might obtain. Going door to door selling matches was usually the same as begging, and there were more than enough people doing that already.

Some of the youngest boys and girls still took to wading through the mud at low tide, scavenging things to sell for a meagre profit.

Granted, things were not as bad as they had been in the past, when it had been common practice to force young children up narrow chimneys. Before the ban in 1875, plenty of them had died, getting jammed inside the flue to suffocate or burn to death. Those who had avoided such a fate had not really been any better off though, gradually succumbing to illness.

"It's the soot," he had been told, and Wisely believed it, even now. In the past, he had talked with a few men who had worked as chimney sweeps before the ban. None of them had worked for very long, but they had received the ban with mixed emotions; mostly, they had been relieved.

"I was six when I started, eight when I stopped," one of them had told him, coughing into a dirty handkerchief. In exchange for three guineas, his father had signed him up for seven years as an apprentice, and the master sweep had promised a bunch of benefits in exchange for absolute obedience. He and his fellows had been promised care, weekly wash-ups and church visits. Reality had been quite different.

There had been five of them. One had been burnt to death, two had suffocated, another two had succumbed to illness and the last of them, the survivor, had lost most of his eyesight just in time for a bill to finally end the practice. Granted, most former sweeps had still led a pretty shitty life afterwards, but despite this, a number of them were incredibly thankful to the lord who had ended their employment.

They were all gone now though, having died or left in hopes of greener pastures. Wisely had found it strange, because over time, the group of former sweeps had become akin to a fixture in what had been his world at the time. He had not been particularly saddened though, because he had scarcely known them; people died all the time after all. If one wanted to go on, one simply had to learn to live with it.

Before joining Red and his group, Wisely hadn't really thought of it as an issue. Well, to be honest, he had not really thought of it as much of an issue even after that. As had been proven, the others were expendable after all, with one notable exception.

"We've got enough," Red said at last, rising to his feet.

Wisely folded his gazette and moved to follow.

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"So, what are we going to do about Charley?"

Over time, Red's mood seemed to have improved somewhat. Granted, it was only a slight improvement, but a noticeable one nonetheless. After all, this time around, Red actually seemed to be considering the issue rather than wilfully ignoring it. "Well, he's a twit," Red began, stating what they both knew already. "I doubt he'd last very long if we left him behind."

To be frank, Wisely still failed to see the problem. Of course, _morally_ speaking, the decision to leave Charley behind would be questionable. Granted, in his current state, Charley was an obvious liability. Still‒ "Why do we have to care about him anyway?"

Red shot him a quick look before averting his eyes, his gaze becoming somewhat distant. "I made a promise."

A promise? "To whom?"

"Jack."

"To Artie?" Wisely was sorely tempted to ask just what said promise had entailed; he rather doubted it was necessary though. Red might not have cared a whole lot for laws and oftentimes also morals. Once he had given his word however, he generally strove to keep it, even if it was a promise made to someone who was no longer around. Still‒ "Pretty stupid of you."

Red shrugged mildly at that. "In hindsight, yes."

They exchanged a look and then cracked fairly identical smiles. Their good mood only lasted so long though, because as they rounded the corner of the street leading up to the lodging house, Red's demeanour immediately darkened, and he wasted no time dragging Wisely back around the corner. Even so, Wisely did manage to catch a glance of what had brought about the change. _"The Scotland Yard?"_ he hissed under his breath, sneaking another peek before Red pulled him back. "What are they doing here?"

The police had already been there once to question them about Annie, hadn't they? Well, technically speaking, they hadn't questioned Red, but‒

"Wisely."

Wisely found his fingers closing around a familiar knife; one that he saw often but had never held.

"Go."

Wisely just stared at Red in disbelief, realising just what the other was asking of him. _"You can't be serious."_

Red scoffed, sneaking another glance around the corner. "You're too slow," he said, without even sparing a glance Wisely's way. "I'll draw their attention."

Wisely desperately wanted to enlighten Red to the fact that _he_ might just be the one they were after. Then again, Red was perceptive. Besides, with his evident paranoia, Red could by no means be oblivious to the possibility. Either way, Wisely found himself clutching the knife tighter. "Got it," he said, trying to find somewhere to put it without it being either obvious or him being at a risk of cutting or stabbing himself, however accidentally. "Be careful."

Red snorted, gesturing for him to get moving. "Don't run; you'd look suspicious if you did."

The advice was delivered in a casual tone, as though the situation had been perfectly ordinary and manageable. Normally, Wisely would have taken some amount of comfort in it, in believing that the situation was mostly under control or at the very least manageable. Now however‒

"It'll work out."

Wisely honestly wasn't too sure.

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	6. Down Under

_Long time no update. New chapter, lots of exposition. Oh well._

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**Down Under**

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Even now, he could see it clearly; the body on the cobblestones, bloody and disfigured, but thankfully unmoving. Jack had not suffered long; it was a small mercy, but Red had still taken comfort in the fact. After all, there were much worse ways to go. Granted, Jack himself (or Artie, as he had called himself at the time) would no doubt have been disappointed of it; the manner of his death as well as the timing of it. "Fuck!" he would have shouted, slapping his forehead in exasperation. "This wasn't how I had planned on going down under!"

Red would have offered up his wry condolences, because other circumstances aside, Jack had played a key part in causing his own death. Wisely meanwhile would probably have done the Wisely thing and remarked that Jack wouldn't have been sent to Australia anyway, seeing that the transportation practice had practically ceased back in the 1860s.

Jack would hardly have listened to any of that though; he would no doubt have raved on and on about Australia as though it was in fact some sort of paradise. The others, Charley and Tom, had never quite shared Jack's apparent fascination with Australia. Then again, Charley was an idiot and Red had known as much since way back, back when he had first come into contact with the group. Tom certainly hadn't been any smarter, so that had left Jack, who had been clever enough to make up for his dumber companions. Unfortunately, Jack's redeeming qualities had tended to get lost whenever he got too sure of himself.

All three of them had been younger than him, albeit not by much. In terms of stature, they had been fairly equal, whether it could be attributed to genetics or to growing up in an environment wherein proper food was not always available. In terms of strength however, Red had had them outclassed by far and they had been quick to realise as much.

In the end, they had been the ones to extend an offer of cooperation. After all, even though Red had certainly been strong for someone his size, he had been alone and in moderately unfamiliar territory at the time. The others might have been physically inferior, but they had known things he had not. Furthermore, they had readily offered to teach him their tricks, provided he offered them his help and protection whenever it proved necessary, be it from the seedy underworld or from the sometimes equally seedy upper world.

Becoming the leader of the bunch had not been on Red's agenda. However, owing to the fact that he would rather give orders than follow those issued by others, he had been forced to acknowledge Jack's point in that it would be for the best.

The other three had spent time in the workhouse. Red had not, but he had seen things and heard many stories of the place. Going by what he had heard, only an idiot would want to go back, even with the dangers that one faced out in the streets. Jack in particular had liked to share his experiences. He had also liked to exaggerate, so Red had usually taken his words with not so much a pinch of salt as a handful of it.

Naturally, as with all things, there had been times when Jack had not exaggerated; he had spoken quite casually about his alcoholised mother and the brother who had resorted to burglary in order to feed his younger siblings, only to get caught mere months into it. What had happened to him afterwards was anyone's guess, but Jack had always favoured the deportation route.

"I wouldn't mind it, you know; the heat, I mean," Jack had often said whenever the two of them had sat by the small hearth of their old hideout, warming themselves back up after a day's hard work. "I hear Australia's got lots of sunshine and far less smog. Besides, I hear the posh folks over there are actually outnumbered by deported convicts, so really, what is there _not_ to like?"

Later, Wisely the Wiseacre had argued that Australia had plenty of dangerous animals too. Jack had looked at him, kicked up an eyebrow and said: "Isn't this town also full of them though? Problem is that you can't exactly kill them without getting hanged for the trouble. Imagine it though, would you?"

Indeed, Jack had had a point. After all, you could lawfully kill the animals over in Australia; you could try at any rate, because venomous snakes could be decapitated with a shovel and venomous spiders could be crushed beneath the sole of your boot. The same really could not be done to people, at least not without serious repercussions of some sort.

To Jack, Australia would have been less of a punishment and more of a reward. To Red however, Australia remained an ambiguous topic. On one hand, he sided with Jack, on the other with Wisely. For the most part however, Red sided with himself. Having considered the pros and cons of the issue, he had resolved not to explore the possibility of a better life there. After all, even though the humid coldness of the British climate oftentimes disagreed with him, Red was positive that he would not enjoy a hotter, drier climate. Besides, even London got a few days' worth of heat in the summer, and though the heat wave usually proved lucrative for business, Red did not so much enjoy it as he tended to suffer through it, venturing out only after the sun had begun to set.

"It does sound really nice though, doesn't it?"

It had, but at the same time it had not; much like the cold, heat in excess had never quite agreed with him.

"It can't be any worse though, right? Than here, I mean."

Even in this place, there were far worse places to be and far worse lives to lead. Red had seen quite a few of them, and Jack too no doubt.

Over time, Jack had taught and told him many things. Over time, Red had largely done the same for him, at least in regards to the teaching aspect. Red honestly was not much for talking, especially not about his past; Jack had picked up on this fact much earlier than the rest of them. As a result, Jack had prattled on enough for both of them; he must have either loved the sound of his own voice or had certain issues with prolonged silence in times of idleness.

Red had never gotten around to asking about what had happened to Jack's younger siblings, or to his mother for that matter. Wisely however had, and Jack had offered up a mild shrug along with a casual remark that "Typhus got them."

Red had never quite bothered to ask just what the heck _typhus_ was, but he had figured that it was some type of disease and had ultimately left it at that. Typhus, typhoid, tuberculosis; for some reason, all diseases seemed to start with a T, except the ones that did not. It hardly mattered though, really.

Jack, by then answering more to Artie than his birth name, had been killed by his own inattention and recklessness, with some help from a passing coach. Thus, he was now down under, as in literally buried and in a churchyard at that, in consecrated ground; the Barmy Old Duke had mentioned something to that nature at some point.

Jack would never make it to Australia, but at least his end had been quick; Tom had withered away while some disease had feasted upon what was left of him. And Charley, well, he was still an idiot.

Jack's grave even had a marker these days. It was a simple wooden cross; Red had seen it once in passing. It did not matter though, and none of the others knew, seeing that Red had not bothered to tell them. It would have been pointless after all; they had no time to waste on the dead if they wanted to ensure their own continued survival.

Fact remained that Jack had been a fairly gruesome sight though, his battered body lying on the cobblestones. However, he had by no means been the first dead and frightfully mutilated body Red had ever seen. Of course, having it happen to someone you knew on a more personal level had certainly been different and painful in its own right; a bit shocking even. Even so, there had been other matters at hand, like ensuring the survival of those still remaining.

Of course, even Red had his limits. For the most part, he remained acutely aware of them. There had been little that he could have done for Tom, save for what he already had done. Of course, Charley did not seem to view things quite the same way. Red found that he could not fault him however, not much at any rate. It was after all quite common to seek out something or someone that could serve as a scapegoat rather than accept the truth as it was. Of course, it was highly debatable whether or not Charley even recognised the truth for what it was; he was after all by no means the sharpest knife in the drawer.

Still, Red could deal with being painted as a scapegoat; it was a role that he was very familiar with after all, having played it numerous times in the past. Unfortunately however, there were no guarantees that he would be the only target. Rather, recent events indicated that at least Wisely counted as a person of interest.

Going by what Wisely had told him, Red could only really imagine one reason as to why the Scotland Yard had returned to their doorstep. So when Red had first spotted them, he was already raking his mind for the old strategies he and Jack had constructed before Wisely had come along.

As far as strategies went, most of them concerned pick pocketing. Of course, that in itself did not make them entirely useless in this scenario. Rather, if anything, then they were very useful. After all, making a clean getaway from law enforcements was one of the key points of it all, was it not?

"Be careful," Wisely urged him; he looked tense, fiddling with the knife, trying to find a good hiding place for it.

"_No worries,"_ Jack commented; his voice was just as clear as though he had been there in the flesh. _"You've got a plan, don't you Red?"_

They said that seeing was the same as believing. However, fact remained that Red was a sceptic at heart. Even so, he acknowledged the likely existence of ghosts. It was either that or coming to terms with the idea that he might have gone insane somewhere along the way.

Red gestured for Wisely to get moving. "Don't run; you'd look suspicious if you did."

Wisely looked decidedly on edge; Red was mildly curious about what kind of face he would make, should Red mention Jack's ghostly outline behind him. Of course, Red knew far better than to actually try it out. Instead, he focused on the important thing; surviving the tangible present. "It'll work out."

Because things always did, whether it was for better or for worse.

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	7. Manhunt

_Long time no update (again). Oh well._

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**Manhunt**

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Red had told him not to run; that running made him look suspicious and whatnot. At first, Wisely had done his utmost to follow these instructions, yes, and for the most part, following them had worked excellently. They had even managed to meet up briefly in the afternoon to discuss their next move.

Despite being the prime target, Red did not seem entirely too bothered by the situation. Saying that he thrived would have been an exaggeration, but he certainly did not seem to be wearing as thin as Wisely himself. Then again, this was hardly surprising; Wisely had always known that Red's stamina was monstrous, and his mental fortitude was certainly nothing to laugh at either. Still‒

"How can you be so freakishly calm about this?" Wisely hissed, snatching the apple offered to him. "I wasn't made to handle this kind of stress."

Red bit into an apple of his own, expression deadpan. "You weren't made to handle a lot of things, Wisely."

Rude, but true nevertheless. Truthfulness aside though, Wisely took the liberty of taking offence. "Well _excuse me_ for not being as resilient as some of you, and for being more adept at using my brain than my legs."

"One doesn't necessarily exclude the other," Red answered, taking the time to swallow before continuing. "Still, since you're so proud of your brain, make sure you use it."

Really, Wisely could have strangled him. "What do you _think_ I've been doing?"

Red discarded what still remained of his second apple and started on his third. "Wasting energy."

Really. "Well excuse me for not being an expert in all of this! Mind you, you're the one who gave me a knife and told me to run! No, wait, _'Don't run,'_ you said. _'It'll make you look suspicious,'_ you said. _'I'll draw them away,'_ you said, '_distract them,'_ you said… _my arse_."

"Less talking, more eating." Red deadpanned. "You'll need the energy, trust me."

Frustrated or not, Wisely took the advice for what it was. Granted, he took it sullenly, but still.

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"Don't run," he would say. "Use your brain," he would say. "Don't panic," he would strongly imply, which was easy enough for _him_ to say.

Sliding to an abrupt halt, Wisely very nearly slipped on something down there in the dark. He would rather not think about what it might be, given the definite probability that it was something absolutely disgusting. Wisely wasted no time in cursing it though. Instead, he stayed close to the walls as he hobbled along, focusing on putting one foot ahead of the other.

Unbelievably, night had already fallen. The streetlights were already lit, and the streets were empty enough to make it difficult to hide from the people on patrol; police and people of the mob. It was effectively a manhunt, albeit a relatively low-key one; if it wasn't, then the streets would have been teeming with opportunists, hoping to earn a quick buck. Wisely could hardly blame them though. Under different circumstances, he could very well have been one of them.

Now, prolonged physical activity had never been Wisely's idea of fun. However, stopping really wasn't an option either, not for now at least. Besides, it was not as though Wisely was running around aimlessly either. Rather, he was trying to get from point A to point B, navigating through poorly lit back alleys in an attempt to stay well out of sight. It was not an easy task per se, because even though it was dark, it was not necessarily easy to hide when the pursuers had lights and occasionally even dogs at their disposal. Granted, it was still possible, but it would have been much easier to avoid detection in daylight by hiding in crowds. Then again, in the end, everything came down to the skill of the hunter, did it not?

"Move along," Wisely mouthed soundlessly, pressing himself flat against the wall, because he'd apparently managed to stumble right into a fucking dead end. "There's nothing there. Move along."

Of course, there was no way things would ever go that smoothly.

Wisely did not need to ask himself what Oliver Twist would have done in this kind of situation, because the answer was obvious; he would obviously have done something incredibly stupid. Of this, Wisely had no doubt; Oliver Twist was a fictional character and a stupidly naïve one at that. Granted, similar people did exist in real life, occasionally even in abundance. Wisely had found them to be exceptionally short-lived however. If they did not perish due to their naivety, then they simply outlived it. Then again, Wisely pondered whether or not this could actually be the case for most of them, the real difference being the amount of time it took to snap out of the delusion. It was only sensible for people to be more selfish than selfless after all.

Those who displayed more of the latter were either feebleminded or rich enough to devote some of their affluence to altruistic causes, be it for the sake of pious belief, for improvement of self-image or for the sake of incurring favours that would have to be repaid with interest at some point. After all, pretty words could not change the fact that nothing in life was really free. And if you did not pay for it with your money or with your labour, then you paid for it with your suffering, your _existence_.

Wisely wasn't quick; he was quick-_witted_, but that was really about it. His skills as a pickpocket left a whole lot to be desired. At best, he could divert the attention of a target or a crowd, and he could read and plan and memorise. All things considered, he would probably have made an awful chimneysweep, one that would have succumbed sooner rather than later. Still‒

Wisely was not Oliver Twist. Though they were both orphans, Wisely was not of gentle birth and generally had very little use of good manners, morality and all that. He _was_ an orphan all the same, and even though he was not the best fighter, he could definitely throw a pretty mean punch if necessary. Their similarities probably began and ended there though, but that was hardly a bad thing. Oliver Twist would not have survived the current London; not intact, at any rate. In the end, it hardly mattered though, because the real question concerned _Wisely's_ continued survival and not Oliver Twist's.

In the end, this had never been a question of right or wrong, of innocence or guilt. In the end, it had always been a question of doing _what_ was necessary _when_ it was necessary; of survival.

Red said that he didn't do it, and Wisely believed him, strangely as it might sound. Because Red would not have lied, not to him; omitting the truth was one thing and lying right into Wisely's face another. If Red had really killed those people, then he wouldn't have lied about it. This meant that Red was innocent, in this case at least, which in turn meant that someone was trying to frame him, using the recent incident as a pretext to have him arrested. But who?

Gee, if Wisely didn't actively have to run around right now, then he would likely have figured it out by now. Probably.

Instead, a heaving Wisely found himself backed into a corner, halfway blinded by the lights directed his way. He cursed.

Wisely did not know how many there were, but he could tell that there was at least two; the one directing the lights and the one making their approach. Since the latter was a police constable, it was only reasonable to assume that the former was one as well. It was also reasonable to assume that they weren't friendly, and Wisely didn't think as much as he reacted to the person attempting to seize him. Unfortunately, in Wisely's amateur hands, the knife failed to fulfil its true potential; the strike was too slow and too poorly aimed and the cut much too shallow. Logically, Wisely was quick to realise as much. However‒

Reason and logic were swiftly been thrown out the window. The other constable's sudden approach brought the light so much nearer, and it allowed Wisely a glimpse of something that had his blood freezing in his veins.

Moments thereafter, he was struck, backhanded with way more force than necessary. The heavy collision with the brick wall was painful and stole the breath from him, and the fingers wrapped around his throat seemed intent on making sure that he would not regain it. The clattering of the knife against the cobblestones registered as a mere afterthought as the pressure on Wisely's windpipe increased. Black spots were already starting to cancel out his vision; whether it was from getting his head smacked into the wall or from getting strangled, Wisely honestly couldn't tell.

Then there were flickering lights and shouts; the voice was undeniably feminine. "Stop it!" the female constable screamed, shaking her partner's shoulder. "You're killing him!"

Going by the widening of the constable's smile and the retained pressure, this very much seemed to be the point. Still, of all places to die‒ No, location aside, of all people to‒ No, of all‒

A single shot rang out, bringing about temporary relief. It proved decidedly short-lived however, as the black-blooded monster masquerading as a policeman exploded into a cloud of ashes and toxic gas.

Despite distantly aware of it all, Wisely was all too startled to prevent a sudden intake of breath. He immediately felt the burn of it in his throat but scarcely had any time to reflect on it. Someone grabbed him by the back of his collar, roughly manhandling him out into the main street. Wisely barely even took note of the person dragging him though, occupied as he were with the panicked realisation that there were blackened pentagrams blossoming on his skin. Wisely might not have known a whole lot about monsters, but even he knew what happened to people after the pentagrams started appearing. Going by the curse from somewhere above, he wasn't the only one.

Another shot rang out.

An absolutely unimaginable surge of agony followed. Wisely could have curled up and died right then and there, but instead his body writhed, his half-formed scream cut short as he threw up.

Ironically, Wisely felt marginally better after all that. He was still in a great deal of pain, yes, but not in agony. That might just be his delirium temporarily taking the edge of it though, so Wisely wasn't going to‒

"Dirty brat," snapped an irritated voice, and Wisely found himself slammed up against a wall for a second time. "You better have been worth it."

Even in such an afflicted state, Wisely recognised the man. Red might have had a good memory for faces, but he certainly wasn't the only one. Still, even with the vague recognition, the man's words and appearance brought about more confusion, not less, especially as he went on, making demands; demanding to know the whereabouts of 'that other brat'.

Another moment passed, and then, a lot of things went down in quick succession.

Another shot rang out. The red-haired man let go of Wisely with a curse, glaring up at the rooftops.

Despite the pain and likely going into shock, Wisely recognised his opportunity and took it, stumbling out of the alleyway. He very nearly stumbled right into the arms of a female police constable. Thankfully though, she was still in shock from what she had just witnessed, unable to do more than shout as Wisely broke off into a run. She called for him to stop; Wisely barely heard her over the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears.

Surprisingly, Wisely lasted for four blocks before his adrenaline high wore off. Though he wanted nothing more than go and lie down somewhere, Wisely steeled himself, rummaging through his pockets with the hand that _wasn't_ bleeding profusely. Thankfully, he did have a handkerchief to use as makeshift bandage. It was only an emergency measure however. It would stem the blood flow, but would hardly stop it completely; the material was way too thin for that.

There was a small graveyard up ahead, and Wisely set his sights on it, cradling his hand close to his chest. He really needed to clean it up soon. The blood loss was bad enough, but an infection would definitely be worse. Heck, if the wound turned gangrenous, then‒

Wisely nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand landed on his shoulder. However, as he turned, the tension immediately drained from him. Red was there, deadpan, but Wisely was relieved, so utterly relieved to see him that he felt lightheaded.

Red grasped Wisely's uninjured hand, pulling at it. "Come on."

Wisely attempted to follow, but his legs weren't having any of that. He didn't say anything though; he didn't need to. Red obviously picked up on the situation pretty quickly, scoffed and moved slightly. For a brief moment, Wisely experienced the chilling fear that Red might decide to do to him what Wisely had proposed they would to do to Charley; abandon the burden. Then, Red crouched down, presenting his back to him. The sheer relief briefly made him forget all about the pain, adding to the light-headedness.

"Get on." Red's words left no room for objections; not that Wisely had any in the first place.

Wisely climbed onto his back. Red made a slightly irritated sound again, hoisting him further upwards. Wisely tried to keep his head up, he really did. But as Red got up and started moving, Wisely felt his eyelids drooping, exhaustion catching up now that the immediate danger had seemingly passed. Red didn't seem very tired though, but with that stamina of his, it was only to be expected, right? Then again‒

Right now, Wisely was too tired to care.

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-


	8. A Matching Set

_Wisely, I feel you. _

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

**A Matching Set**

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

"How's the hand?"

The hand was pounding, but Wisely supposed it could've been much worse, all things considered. "I think I'll live."

For once, their positions were reversed. Usually, Wisely was the one who did the worrying. Actually, Wisely found this role reversal just a tiny bit amusing, and who could blame him, really? Even though the previous night now felt mostly like a nightmarish fever dream, it did not change the fact that it had occurred. Having experienced a number of near-death experiences and then an impromptu interrogation on top of that, it was a night Wisely would probably never forget. Granted, the interrogation had been interrupted midway through, but still.

Unconsciously, his fingers had once again sought out the darkening finger-shaped bruises marring his throat. "Coming to think of it‒" Wisely quipped at last, indicating his own bruises where he lay; the bed certainly wasn't his, but it was his for the time being, and rather comfy at that. It was simply a pain that he had to be in a state where he could not fully enjoy it. "We're a matching set now, aren't we?"

Red kicked up an eyebrow at that. Then he leaned closer. Surprised, Wisely sat perfectly still while a frowning Red laid a hand onto his forehead, pushing his dishevelled hair aside. "You're too hot."

Wisely smiled tiredly in response. "I got shot. It happens."

Going by the deepening of Red's frown, Wisely got the feeling he might have said the exact thing more than twice already. "I'm fine, really," he tried instead, for all it was worth. "I'm mostly just exhausted from running."

Betraying Wisely's expectations, Red did not call him out on his bullshit. Instead, he turned his head, giving the doorway another quick scan before returning his attention to Wisely, still frowning. "Then rest. I'm going out for a bit."

"Again?" Unless Wisely had become completely rubbish at counting, this was already the third time. "Where?"

"Nowhere," Red responded, withdrawing. "Stay put."

As much as Wisely would have liked to get up and follow, the lingering pain in his limbs would not allow such a thing. "Say…"

There was no answer, but unless Wisely was imagining things again, Red had stopped walking.

"Am I dying?"

The footsteps resumed, approaching quickly now rather than walking away. Soon thereafter, Wisely found his field of vision filled with Red's face, sliver-grey eyes regarding him at close proximity. "You won't die," Red deadpanned at last, withdrawing once more. "I promise."

Knowing Red's track record with promises, Wisely supposed he ought to feel at least a bit reassured. Still‒ "That woman's probably already told you about it, but that red-haired bastard seemed really intent on finding you, so you better be careful."

"I know," Red snorted, still lingering in the doorway.

"Do you have to go?" Wisely found himself asking, staring up at the ceiling. "No matter what?"

"Why do you ask?" Red asked at last, still lingering.

Wisely found himself smiling sardonically at that, quietly hating himself. "You should stay here. I promise I'm not contagious."

"If I stay here, then you'll prattle on and on until my ears fall off," Red deadpanned, and in spite of the pain, Wisely laughed quietly at that. "Besides‒" Red added, tone growing increasingly clipped, "There's that other bastard."

With that said, he vanished, leaving Wisely alone with his thoughts and pain and whatnot. His state of loneliness did not last for very long however, seeing that the houses owner, one female police constable, had just returned, presumably from a station that was in disarray due to the news they had been infiltrated by monsters. Or not. Quite frankly, Wisely had no idea.

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

Moor Hesse was a police constable. Admittedly, she was still fairly young and green in comparison to a lot of her colleagues. Of course, in her case, her boss and her more experienced colleagues had a whole lot to criticise; she was green, she was too idealistic, she was a woman. "Women your age should receive suitors, not run around chasing criminals," had been her colleague Charles' favourite saying. Though Moor had not been working with him for more than a couple of months, but she had already lost count of the times she had been forced to endure his and her other colleagues' comments, first on how she ought to get married and next on how she ought to quit her job to dedicate herself fully to taking care of ailing brother-in-law.

Of course, her colleagues were only the latest opponents of her career choice. Before that, her own sister Claire had‒

Moor wilfully averted her eyes from the church; had it ever been the home to some benevolent deity, then it was long gone now. Then again, Moor had always disliked superstitions; her dislike for things that lay outside the natural order of things was exceeded only by her dislike for criminals. Moor had lost her faith in a benevolent God, because which benevolent God would allow criminals and monsters to run rampant? Up until last night, Moor hadn't even considered the possibility of the latter. Similarly, up until the early hours of this morning, Moor would never have considered harbouring the former, yet here she was, harbouring two of them. "Honestly," she sighed, resisting the urge to tear at her hair once she made it inside.

The house adjacent to the church was hers now, in a manner of speaking. Officially, her brother-in-law Marc was still listed as the owner, but after nearly four weeks of nothing, Moor had more or less come to terms with the fact that he wasn't coming back. Granted, initially, she had been quite frazzled, thinking someone might have broken in. Since there was nothing missing or particularly disturbed however, Moor was eventually left to consider other possibilities. Deep within, she both hoped and feared that Marc had left on his own, wheelchair and all; that he had found better prospects elsewhere, away from the memories. If so, then some part of Moor wished she could do the same instead of facing the everyday torture of passing by the place wherein Claire had died, just as she had found her own happiness.

Then again, watching Marc waste away in a wheelchair had also been its own brand of torture, much like not knowing his current fate. Either way, it had hurt her then just like it hurt her now, knowing the young priest who had done so much good had been reduced to a heartbroken cripple. The man, who had taken in Moor and her sister after their parents had been killed by burglars, had by all means deserved a better fate. Claire had also deserved better, but at least with her, Moor would have closure. With Marc, she was not all that certain.

London was a big city after all, dirty and crowded in places. It was also an unforgiving one. The city was the hub of the British Empire, its awe-inspiring front but also its horrifying backyard. Granted, Moor had only recently learned of the full extent of the monsters lurking in the shadows and within people, not just in their character but also‒ No, _no_, Moor would rather not think about it. At the same time however, she could not avert her eyes and forget what she had seen. Such a thing was impossible after all, with the sight of Charles' splitting face burnt into her retinas.

Of course, there had also been that other man, the red-haired, smoking man in what appeared to be a very expensive coat. Moor had tried to demand some explanation but he had brushed her off, ignoring her in favour of interrogating the street urchin. Then there had been a shot fired from above and‒

Moor shook her head tiredly, because it didn't matter. It didn't matter.

Minutes along the line, hurriedly following a small trail of blood, Moor had happened upon them; the wounded waif, passed out on the back of his comrade, whose cold grey eyes had stared right back at her, as if daring her to advance even one step further. Moor had instantly recognised him as the prime suspect, because although there were a number of red-haired urchins in town, the likelihood of there being more than one with such an elaborate scar was decidedly unlikely.

Moor had attempted to extract some answers from him next, with limited results. Normally, she would have gone in for an arrest too. However, she had been all too shocked by recent events to follow proper procedure, and he was probably armed. Besides, after seeing her colleague like that, Moor had wavered in the belief that she was truly on the side of justice. Perhaps it had been that or some other momentarily inspired madness that had spurred her into the actions that had led up to the situation at hand.

After relaying her version of the previous night's events to her boss, Moor had expected some sort of action. Rather, she had expected some sort of action that did not include her boss delivering a verdict that she was on the verge of hysteria, along with orders not to pursue the matter any further.

Moor had ultimately taken him up on his suggestion to go home and get some rest, mostly because otherwise, she would probably have said or done something that would have proven detrimental to her future in the force.

On her way out of the station however, Moor had caught a glimpse of something familiar; an embroidered coat that looked remarkably similar to the one she had seen the previous night, save for the fact that this one was less decorated and had silver buttons rather than gold ones. There was one distinct similarity between them however, besides the colour and the general cut; there was a symbol featuring a cross embroidered on the left side of the chest, roughly above where the heart should be.

Only steely determination had prevented Moor from storming over and demanding answer from this proxy, because going by the attire, they were bound to know the man from the other night. As things were however, Moor would rather not draw any more attention to herself for now, in part because she was harbouring fugitives and in part because she had not had time to interrogate them herself yet.

Considering her boss' behaviour, Moor's testimony about Charles would either be swept under the rug or used as an excuse to relieve her of her duties, which was something she would not allow. After all, Moor had worked much too hard and dealt with entirely too much bullshit to let anyone end her career this early on, even if she had been growing increasingly troubled as of late.

Around the beginning of the year, a sense of unease had snuck up on her, increasing gradually over time. Moor had struggled to pinpoint the source of it all. Now however, she had gradually begun to realise that there was not just one source but several.

In such a big city, people vanished on occasion, willingly or unwillingly, and only a portion of them ever resurfaced. Granted, not all of them were missed either, but that was beside the point.

The point was that there was something going on; something big, moving just beneath the surface, unseen save for the ripples caused whenever it reared its head above the surface. There was something going on, and Moor had a sneaking feeling that at least one of her two strays had an inkling of what it could be, possibly even more.

Entering what had used to be Marc's bedroom, Moor stopped dead in her tracks. The prime suspect was gone, in spite of strict orders to stay put, and the remaining one simply shot her a look before calmly turning the page of Marc's old bible.

"You read?" Moor managed at last, resisting the urge to tear the tome from the urchin's grip.

That earned her a decidedly disdainful look from a pair of fever-bright eyes. "Going by the state of this place, you obviously don't."

Really. "They're my brother-in-law's."

"My condolences," the urchin flatly delivered, already flipping the page, his attitude making Moor seriously rethink this whole idea.

Shaking the thought, Moor pulled over a chair and took a seat, determined to get at least some of her answers. "Where's your friend?"

"Out."

"For how long?"

The boy shrugged mildly at that. "For a bit, he said, but that could mean a lot of things."

"Why?"

The other shook his head a couple of times and then looked like he clearly regretted the motion, reaching up to hold it steady. "All things considered, he's either heading back to the Haunt to grab some stuff or meeting with his employer…"

"Employer?" Moor repeated, unable to completely hide her frown.

"Some baron or duke or other," the boy rambled on, shrugging again. "What?" he added once he had caught sight of Moor's stunned expression. "Nothing in life is really free and who said our personal Mr. Brownlow couldn't ask for a favour every now and then? Give and take, you know?"

"A favour?" Moor repeated, both hopeful and horrified by the prospect of hearing more.

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

Moor Hesse fancied herself as an ally of justice. However, recent events had her questioning what that justice truly entailed. Granted, both the boy under her watch and the one missing were criminals, but having listened to the story of the former, she could hardly haul him off to face justice. In the end, the urge to find out more was stronger than the one to ascertain that all criminals paid their due.

"In the end, it isn't about justice, about right or wrong, innocence or guilt," Wisely noted, blinking tiredly down at the page as if struggling to read it. "It's more of a question of pockets and their depths, of debts owed. That's all there is, really."

On one hand, Moor fiercely wanted to deny the allegation that the Scotland Yard was in the pockets of prominent gang leaders. On the other hand, she had been shot down when she had suggested a more thorough investigation into the one of the more prolific gangs, having picked up on rumours that they had been involved in multiple incidents and connected to several disappearances. Of course, rumours were just rumours and rumours were usually abundant. Still‒

Moor had many questions. Right now however, there was just one at the very forefront of her mind. "And the noble? Your friend's employer?"

Wisely did not answer. Looking up, Moor was quick to realise why. With a sigh, she got up from her chair.

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

In the end, it was not a question of right or wrong, innocence or guilt. It was a question of pockets and their depths, and of debts owed and incurred. Prominent gang leaders were not the only ones with deep pockets however, and Wisely just so happened to know of someone who held not only the means but possibly also a will to help out, albeit for a price.

The Barmy Old Duke did have a vested interest after all, didn't he?

Wisely made sure to keep his eyes closed and his breaths until the woman had risen from the chair, left the room and closed the door behind her. Only then did he open his eyes back up, regarding the closed door with decided weariness and a hint of irritation.

On one hand, Wisely could appreciate the help the woman had given them already, even if it had been done with ulterior motives; thus, he _had_ offered up _some_ information in order to invoke further sympathy.

On the other hand, Wisely found himself irritated by her persistence. Aside from his high fever, his body ached. His head in particular pounded in tandem with every heartbeat. However, Wisely was not yet desperate enough for the makeshift remedy Red had brought along. After all, though the whiskey would probably take the edge off the pain for a while, Wisely knew both from word of mouth and from personal experience that the headache which followed was usually worse. Still, Wisely had definitely appreciated the thought; that much went without saying.

Sighing, Wisely lifted his hand; it took some effort, but he did it nonetheless. Experimentally flexing his fingers, he was rewarded with a whole lot of pain.

Who could have imagined that getting shot could hurt so bloody damn much? On the other hand, the wound couldn't exactly be normal, considering who had inflicted it. What was highly ironical however was the fact that it had actually been done to save him ‒ well, to keep him _alive_ at any rate.

Red had scoffed when Wisely had relayed his account, asking for Red's input on recent events.

"Your life is worth nothing to him," Red had uttered, glaring darkly out the window.

Wisely had not been surprised to learn this, not really. Instead, he had pondered what he could possibly be worth to the Barmy Old Duke. He had to be worth something after all, considering the recent interest. Of course, to Wisely's knowledge, the Earl's interest lay primarily in Red, and that was understandable, because Red was special. Granted, Wisely also fancied himself as a somewhat unusual existence. However, Wisely would be among the first to recognise that there was a definite difference between something special and something useful.

Red obviously filled a function as an informant. Granted, there were countless others that could have done the job for a far lesser price. Their numbers alone would have allowed them to cover more ground, even if Red was probably a whole lot smarter. That having been said though, Wisely had in private entertained the thought that the Duke might just know a thing or two about Red's condition, and the idea was lent further credit by the evident commitment. After all, had the Duke shown a similar interest in others, then there would have been rumours at this point, but there had so far been none; none that had reached Wisely's ears at any rate, up until the point when the Duke had shown an explicit interest in Wisely himself.

Of course, Wisely had read the letter; he had read it numerous times, looking for alternative meanings or additional hints contained in the politely worded invitation. In the end however, his efforts had gone largely unrewarded.

On the other hand, given that he no longer had the letter in his immediate possession, Wisely supposed that there had been some merit to rereading it after all. Otherwise, it would have been easy for him to forget the piece of information that had been included towards the very end; the address to a noble household in the fancier parts of town.

The letter was obviously set up as some type of bait. However, given the ever increasing number and craftiness of their enemies, what choice did they really have?

"That's the second worst alternative," Red muttered. "The _third_ worst," he then remedied, making Wisely wonder which two alternatives were worse. Merely considering it made his head hurt an awful lot though, so he refrained. Well, he did _try_ at any rate.

"If that's the third worst alternative, then what are the other two? And for that matter, what's the best alternative?"

He waited, but there was no answer. Wisely opened his eyes, blearily surveying the room.

Red was nowhere to be seen.

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-


End file.
